Ain't no Sunshine

"Ain't no Sunshine here," a voice called from behind the screen.
"Do you know where she is?"
"Who's asking?" The voice became a shape, surveying the stranger intently.

Thalia heard the pop of a can, the satisfied slurp that followed.  A long beer belch 

accompanied the rest.

"You're pretty young to be going to strangers houses like this.  Someone could 

take advantage of a little thing like you.

Thalia took a step back, slowly.

"You're right", she choked out a nervous giggle.  Scanning her periphery, afraid to turn her head on the shadow.  "I think I might have the wrong house." She took another slow step toward the street, her car, her phone.  What an idiot to leave it in the car.

She turned to look at her car, her phone, her safety.

The door squeaked, and a bootfall echoed on the old wooden porch.

"Or maybe today is your lucky day, sweetheart."

Her breath caught as his wicked grin set her body motionless.

A fat gray cat jumped onto the rails, the sound put them both in motion, ending the pregnant pause.

"Go on, shoo!"

She didn't wait for him to ask twice.  She ran to her car, nearly dropping her keys as she fumbled to find the right one.

"I'll tell Sunshine you stopped by", the man slurped his beer through his wide grin.  "You go where it's safe, cutie" he winked at her as the finally got her door open.

He lurched forward on the porch, and Thalia gave a little jump as she got in her car, bumping her head as she sat down.  Her whole body was shaking.  

"Ow, that hurt, you sure you don't want to come inside and let me ice that for you?" Thalia heard

as she slammed the door and fumbled with the ignition.

The car took forever to start, and when it finally did, the man was at her passenger door, leaned down, leering.  She pushed the accelerator, as he waved his final goodbye, a lone finger, and "Stupid bitch" echoing on the quiet street.

Dav the Deceiver

It was so easy to slip away.  It was almost like a current pulling him away from her.  Her emotional frailty used to make him feel so strong.  When it didn't go away, when he was the person who made her cry, when she blamed him for his misery, that's when it started.  He took up cycling.  Being in control despite gravity, wind, rock fighting for a piece of him, begging him to fall, to lose control, was an incredible rush.  It gave him all that she'd taken away.  She thought she was the fragile one.  She'd cornered that market years ago.  That left him no choice but to be the hero, or the villain.  The role of victim was taken.

It got to where he was numb to her crying.  He'd pretend he couldn't hear her, in the shower, in bed.  He was really good at fake sleeping.  She was great at falling asleep on the couch, then sitting up, crying in the dark on the couch.  He just didn't care anymore where the tears came from.  He was certain she didn't know anyway.  She'd run out of things to blame.  They'd turned over every rock after the "accident".  They'd blamed post-partum depression in the early years, her childhood before that.  She was just happy being miserable.  There was really nothing left to blame but him.  Even he could admit he was hard to deal with.  He knew he was demanding, bold, held grudges.  So he softened, gave her space, complimented her constantly. It made everything worse.  She went from crying to screaming.  She'd shout at the kids, him, the dog.  Sometimes, she'd take the trash out just to get outside and scream.  Everyone pretended not to notice.  Eventually, they didn't have to pretend.

When being nice didn't work, he just went numb.  So did she.  There was nothing left to say, or there was too much.  Regardless, he controlled his world.  He took care of himself.  He focused his energies where he could make an impact, and he did.  His career took off.  He didn't have to make the excuse of long hours, the work piled up.  He went from Junior Associate to Partner in three years.  His secretary stayed with him.  He knew it was dangerous.  She was cute and fun and made him laugh, but they worked so well together.  They listened to the same bands and liked their pizza and chinese take-out the same way.  It worked.  A little too well.  The train was pulling full speed out of his marriage before his brain had caught up with his dick.  What started as a reprieve, a little salve for his wounded ego, became something undeniable, palpable.

If they hadn't both been married, they would have called it love at first sight.  He resented his feelings of guilt, or shame, or both.  He loved Claudia wholeheartedly.  Her husband didn't; he chased tail on the side, bragged about it at racquetball.  He put her down in front of all their friends.  If Claudia had behaved the way Anastasia had, he would have understood.  It made him hate Amit and Anastasia all the more.  They were the poison in the marriages.  He and Claudia were the victims.  They just wanted to be happy.  Life didn't have to be this hard.  Marriage didn't have to be this hard.

They were just friends at first.  Then running partners.  Then best friends.  Then lovers.

Arrival

"Arriving half drunk in a foreign place is hard on the nerves." --Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary

Cherie read the line over again on the plane.  Her mother was sleeping beside her, her little brother, Kai was playing on his phone.  Her mom had only two gins so far and her head was resting on her daughter's shoulder.  Cherie thought that arriving sober would be just as hard on her mother.   Everything seemed hard on her, though no stranger would see through Marguerite's beautiful smile.  Always poised, even drunk.  Even heartbroken.  She understood her mother's need to leave California, though she resented her for taking her from her only home.

 Trading Malibu for the flat, mosquito-infested swamp they were running to seemed like a punishment.  A punishment none of them deserved.  The flight attendants rattled their cart past them.  Cherie got Kai's attention to see if he wanted a Sprite and prayed the cart wouldn't wake their mother.  Sleep was a rarity for her now.  Cherie deftly took the drinks without moving her left shoulder.  She was becoming skilled in moving without notice, without really moving at all.

By the time the ding sounded, indicating they were beginning their descent and to fasten their seat belts, Marguerite was wide awake and stone cold sober.  Kai was whining that he had to go pee. And Cherie just wanted to hide in her room.  At this point, she didn't care where it was.

Where it ended up being was in one of those newly constructed, but mostly empty condos on the beach.    Top floor, penthouse suite.  Complete with marble floors and grand piano.  Crystal chandeliers everywhere, even the tubs.  Of course, this was nothing new.  It was, in fact, a mere shadow of their old house, tucked away in a little neighborhood that made Bel-Air look like Allentown.

Kai pushed past his mother and sister, running through the unit to decide which room would be his.  Cherie just stood there, hand on her luggage, looking out the window at the placid gulf sunset.  Marguerite walked to the piano, caressed the keys with her fingertips for a moment.  She turned to her eldest with a questioning gaze What do you think? Will this work?

Cherie shrugged, smiled at her mother, and said, "Welcome home."

Marguerite's sad smile jarred all the snark out of Cherie.  She put her hand to her cheek as though she'd been dealt a blow and rushed to her mother, kissing her cheek and throwing her arms around her.  "It's beautiful!"  Marguerite uncharacteristically melted into her daughter's embrace. Cherie let out an exhale and stroked her mother's head, noting how small and fragile it seemed.   Her mother is such an indestructible force, who exudes the kind of energy that compels anyone in her wake to take note, that Cherie sometimes forgets that she is just a woman, that not too long ago, she too was just a girl.

Longing

She can't remember feeling such longing. Maybe in her youth, but that was so long ago. As her responsibilities fall off her like water drying off her skin in the sun, she feels almost free. She wishes away the task at hand, the loose ends of her old life. She hasn't wanted in so long. She had been defined by her role, held bidden to those she'd sworn to protect. Now, in this sailor, she sees a future she wants; a destiny she wants to fulfill. She can't wait. She feels sixteen again. She feels on the cusp of living. Living as she imagines others do; as they wish. Dare she eschew her remaining responsibilities? Can she choose a future for herself with so many lives hanging in the balance? She sees so clearly the porch, working side by side with a man. A man! She'd been partners with her sisters so long. Can she really leave them? What will become of them?

Thalia's lament

The Catwoman peered through the obscured branches at the specter.  The glimmering figure howling inspired a flurry of activity in her wake.  The sky grew dark shapes as flying figures fled the rustling trees, leaves cringing from her touch.  The slender arms of the Sisters bent as from a storm, curling away as though from an attacker, while the attacker was suffering most.  Her suffering was unbearable to even the trees, the lowliest blade of grass in the forest curled away, cowered from her bare feet.

 The Catwoman couldn't believe it.  She hadn't heard anything in the forest that would intimate that Summerlin was a resting place for the dead, but here she was, in the flesh, or not, as it were, Anastasia Acosta's ghost.  She was sure of it as anything else in this strange place.  She had just come from the funeral that very day.  She held Laural's hand and stared at the corpse in the coffin as her friend mourned her mother.  The family were not given details of the suicide, or if David Sr. was, he did not share the information with his children.

Thalia had stood staring at the open casket for what seemed like hours looking for a hint of the cause of death.  Her curiosity was impolite at best, a violation, but she couldn't help it.  She'd never seen a dead body before.  And this one, her friend's mother, she barely knew aside from the rare glimpse, a whisp, asking if they have towels for the pool, offering a plate of cookies, stoically announcing the time from the other side of the door, declaring "lights out" when she'd stayed the night.  As far as Thalia could tell, Anastasia was a ghost haunting her own house, even in her life.  Her presence-not presence, absence-while present while in this state felt oddly normal.  It wasn't entirely unlike her experiences with her for as long as she'd known her. 

Thalia shuddered at the memory of her only real conversation with her.  She'd found the woman unbearably cold. It was the previous summer, before she'd become close with Laural.  She had been dating David, Laural's brother.  If that's what you could call it.

 From the Monday in May that she showed up to school in David's track jacket, she'd gotten looks from boys and girls, and whispers.  She thought it was newfound respect, at first.  Then she walked into the bathroom 5th period to see her name in lipstick accompanied by some less than complimentary statements that only apply to females.  It seemed David had quite the reputation and now, by proxy, so did she.  A senior walked in and saw her crying, and tried to warn her.

 The warnings fell on deaf ears.   She wasn't like that, and if David liked her then maybe he'd changed.  At least that was the story she got from him after school.  He caught her as she was heading for the bus and talked him into his car.  He had a way with words, and his eyes held so much sincerity.  It took him three weeks of flowers and movies and chaste kisses and late phone calls to convince her that he didn't deserve his reputation as a player.  In a stroke of irony that she can finally, although painfully laugh at, she rewarded his hard work with her virginity.  And to think that she'd been surprised when he broke up with her a few short weeks later. 

She didn't take it well.  Quiet little Thalia was yelling, crying, screaming at him, when his mother came in the room.  From her cold complacency, Thalia could tell that she wasn't the first defiled girl Anastasia has calmly escorted from the house, still sniffling.  Oh, she'd made her tea and took her downstairs to talk a bit, but she also helped Thalia take of the letterman jacket that now smelled like her.  She seemed almost proud of her son for offering to take the now delusional ex-girlfriend home.  Thalia sat in numb, thankful silence for the entire bumpy ride in horrifying amazement that this woman could respond to her son's breakup with her with such cold detachment.

 Could Mrs. Acosta not count the relationship in terms of weeks? Had she forgetten that Thalia was a freshman, just six months older than her own daughter?  or that she'd allowed so much alone time in her nearly eighteen year old son's darkened bedroom?  Or that she wasn't the first freshman he'd dated that year, also for no longer than two months? Thalia hadn't known that last bit of information at the time, but by Friday of the first week of school, she knew of at least six from her grade alone, and five from the year ahead of her. 

These were her new comrades, not quite blood sisters, but close enough. 

She'd only actually talked to a few, they were all so shy now, put off, reserved.  A few had actually become quite promiscuous, as though by adding enough sperm from other boys could magically counteract the sad fact that they'd let such a weaselly letch inside of them.  And for their first time too. But most just sort of withdrew into themselves.  Rumors continued to abound around these girls, of eating disorders, of self-mutilation.  Both of which her own new best friend suffered.  Her predator's own younger sister.  The daughter of the ghost wailing intently toward her.

Thomas the Believer

Thomas never doubted his wife. He would have been better off if he had. Instead, he defiantly disregarded all signs of her betrayal. He laughed in indignance at the concerned efforts of the boys at the firehouse. He shrugged off his daughter's suspicions as high school drama seeking to gain root in his happy home. No, he trusted Sherry. He had to. Couple's can't survive travel and schedules like theirs without it. He was proud of his blind faith. Proud of his unabashed hope. So the day his coworkers' fears were validated, his daughter's suspicions confirmed, he felt as though gravity itself had betrayed him. The world spun beneath his feet, threatening to toss him out of its gravitational pull. Nothing could be trusted. Especially not himself.

Dear Diary,

     Would you call me weird if I told you I know a fairy? or would you lie and just think it like everyone else?
 Well, think what you want, I don't care. My name is Lucretia Wilson, I'm 9 years old and I know a fairy.  If you don't believe me, just ask Paul Carlo.  He's my best friend and the smartest kid in school. I've known Paul Carlo my whole life and he's never told a lie.  Even when John Dixon broke Mrs. Halloway's window and blamed it on Paul Carlo.  John said he would smash Paul's face in if he told on him.  Paul said it was worth it.

     My mom says it's mostly because I bought Paul Carlo milkshakes every day for a week, and fed them to him by spoon.  Mom says we're gonna get married, which just burns me up, cause I know I'm gonna marry Derek Jeter. Sheesh, you'd think she'd be happier to have a famous baseball player for a son-in-law than some smelly old kid who knows every star in the sky the way most boys know the Lakers' starting lineup.  The problem is, Paul doesn't stink at all.  He just smells like soap and bubblegum.  But that's besides the point.

     The point is we're in fourth grade and talking marriage is just gross.  I wish that woman would get off my case sometimes.  I'm sorry.  It's just that I get all steamed up over this love and marriage business, and I have a mother who doesn't let things go once she gets an idea in her head.

     Jewely says it's due to my impatience and that I ought to just let people be people.  That's easy for her to say.  Fairies don't have mothers.  Oh yeah, that's the fairy's name: Jewely Patchouli.

     Paul Carlo and I met Jewely that week after John smashed his face in.  Like I said, I was buying him milkshakes that whole week because of how bad his face looked with his black eye and crooked nose.  Anyway, we were sitting on the bench outside Clark's drugstore drinking our milkshakes when a butterfly landed right on my nose.  It tickled so bad I burst into a fit of giggles and would you believe that butterfly just hung on for the ride?  A dozen more butterflies came flying across the street to find their buddy.

     That's when we saw her.  I can't believe we never noticed her before. She's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, with shiny yellow hair and bright blue eyes.  That's nothing.  It's her smile that's magical.  Just as we were looking at the butterflies leaving her yard, she looked up from her gardening.

     She smiled that Jewely smile and it's like the whole town looked like we just took off our sunglasses.  That's how bright everything was.  Funny thing is, we weren't wearing sunglasses.  Next thing we knew, we were standing right in that lady's yard.  I don't even remember crossing the street.  Later, Paul Carlo and I decided she must have put some sort of spell on us because for one thing, we both know better than to just go in some stranger's yard and two, we certainly know to look both ways when we cross the street. Like I said, we're in the fourth grade. I ask you this, though.  How can you be sure you looked both ways if you don't remember even crossing the street?

     We looked around that yard with our mouths wide open.  I'd never seen so many butterflies, but not only that, she had flowers even Thad had never seen in any of his books.

   Aside from the palm trees, coco plums, and coonties typical in Florida yards, she had more species than any three proud families' tropical oasis.

Gazing over Jewely's roof, I saw the promise of a jungle paradise in the backyard.  The luring hum and cool breeze of Jewely's luscious gardens put Paul Carlo in an almost hypnotic trance.  I wasn't far behind him, but the glazed far-off look on my buddy's face pulled me back to my senses.  I managed to eek out a weak introduction and, dragging Paul Carlo behind, high-tailed it out of there.

     That night, I went to sit with mama on the back porch while she had her tea.  "How's Paul Carlo's face these days?" she asked.

"Still pretty bad, mama."

"That's a shame.  That boy never ceases to amaze me."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, just that Paul Carlo made a hard choice that I don't think most people would have the strength to make.  Annie Halloway would've hollered for about a minute; nothing compared to John Dixon's sense of justice.  I just respect that Paul Carlo would rather get beat up than lose his reputation.  He took the longview; he knew his bruises would fade long before Mrs. Halloway, or any adult she complained to, would respect him again."

After mama braided my hair, and I was lying in bed, I thought about what she said.  I wondered whether I would be smart enough to have the longview if I was called to it.  I drifted off, thinking of ways I might impress mama someday.